by James R Benn
“I wouldn’t have said so when I was younger, but I’m beginning to think that’s true,” I said, thinking of the times Dad and I had butted heads. My kid brother Danny wasn’t anything like him, and they seemed to get along most days.
“And this,” Lady Pemberton said, taking another step down, “is me, if you can believe it.”
Her portrait was smaller, but striking where Louise’s was peaceful. A young woman with auburn hair and large dark eyes stared out from the canvas, her head cocked at an angle as if she were taking the measure of the painter, or perhaps the viewer. The look was piercing, intelligent, and coy at the same time. She wore a black velvet dress tight at the waist and cut low enough that I blushed a bit when I looked at her.
“Seventy years ago, I looked like that, young man,” Great Aunt Sylvia said, a smile on her lips.
“It makes me wish I was born in a different century, Lady Pemberton,” I said, taking her by the hand.
“You flatter very nicely, Captain Boyle,” she said. “You may need all your diplomatic skills at dinner if Meredith has not calmed down.”
“I’ll do my best,” I said, thinking that this family had certainly gone downhill since young Sylvia’s heyday. There were no paintings of Helen or Meredith. Had it gone out of fashion, or was it because Meredith had run off before sitting for her portrait? “Sir Rupert was never painted, I see. Perhaps Peter could do a watercolor of him.” I watched her for any sign acknowledging a link between the two men, but Great Aunt Sylvia gave little away.
“An interesting idea, Captain. But Peter has other things on his mind at the moment. He seems distressed about not going to sea.”
“It’s not possible,” I said, “because of the nature of his work. And it would only be the Channel, in any case. Not exactly going to sea.”
“Still, he keeps muttering about perspective. A valuable commodity, don’t you think?” With that, she moved into the library and accepted a glass of sherry from Edgar. David and Helen were seated on the couch; they stopped talking as we entered. Peter and Kaz were at the window, looking out over the lawn in the dusky light. Peter glanced at me, a haunted and uncertain look in his eyes. Was he distressed at Harding’s decision? I watched Great Aunt Sylvia sipping her sherry and wondered what exactly she had meant about perspective being valuable. I didn’t think she was talking about art. There was something she knew, information she was holding back. Nine decades of life sure gave her the corner on perspective, and I wished she’d be more open about what she knew.
A shriek came from upstairs. Meredith, not angry this time, but surprised, shocked, anguished.
I ran up the steps, heading for Sir Rupert’s study, as Meredith bolted out, one hand clasped over her mouth, eyes uncannily wide. We collided at the head of the stairs, and she pointed to the study, telling me to hurry. A letter had dropped from her hand, and she plucked it hurriedly from the carpet and ran to her room. I dashed into Sir Rupert’s study, fearing the worst, a small part of my mind noting the three-cent stamp and the wrinkled, yellowing envelope.
I found what I expected. Sir Rupert, dead. From a heart attack, most likely, judging by the bottle of digitalis pills clutched in his hand. I felt for a pulse, knowing it was a wasted effort. His lifeless, bulging eyes concurred.
I left the study and shut the door behind me. Peter, Kaz, and David were in the hallway. Beyond them, I could hear Edgar knocking at a door and asking Meredith to open up.
“He’s dead,” I told them. “It may have been a heart attack. Stay here, and don’t let anyone in. I’ll have Williams call a doctor, and the police.”
“Good God,” David said. “Is all that really necessary?”
“It is,” Kaz said. “Best to do everything by the book. You and Peter go and tell the others while I remain here.” Kaz waited until we were alone and shot me a look.
“There’s a bottle of digitalis on the floor,” I said, reading his mind. “The doctor should be able to tell us more.” I went off to find Williams, who made the calls, managing to stave off his tears so well that I wondered if he was a Pemberton man first and foremost.
A car pulled up to the front door in fifteen minutes. Ashcroft rated prompt service.
Edgar led Meredith into the library while we waited for the doctor to complete his examination. Constable Carraher had gone in with the doctor, and Tom Quick waited outside.
Meredith took a spot on the couch next to Great Aunt Sylvia, who patted her hand and murmured “there, there” a few times as Meredith stared vacantly across the room. Helen sat on the other side of Lady Pemberton, weeping, and David stood conveniently out of sight behind her, holding a hand she offered up to him.
No one spoke.
Doctor Phillips gave his report a few minutes later, looking suitably somber. “My condolences to you all,” he said. “I’m fairly certain it was a heart attack. Sir Rupert had an irregular heartbeat, and I had prescribed digitalis for it. I had been quite worried about the effects of the residual dengue fever on his weakened heart. Williams said he was feeling ill yesterday.”
“Yes,” Meredith said. “Of course, he did anything but rest. He was busy all day in Dartmouth, meeting with his solicitor and who knows what else. He was quite secretive about it.”
“Did he seem under any stress?” Doctor Phillips asked. All eyes flitted to Constable Carraher standing behind him, notebook in hand.
“None at all, other than his war work with the Foreign Office,” Great Aunt Sylvia said, the certainty in her voice matched only by the magnitude of the lie. The other family members fell in line, nodding in agreement. For Great Aunt Sylvia, the most pressing matter was to keep family matters private and be rid of the policeman with his pencil poised.
“That would be hard on any man his age,” the doctor said. “What with the fever and his heart condition, I’m only surprised it didn’t happen sooner. Sir Rupert was not a well man. He wished for the extent of his illness to be kept confidential, but that hardly matters now.” With that pronouncement, he left to talk to Williams about removing Sir Rupert’s body. The silence was uncomfortable as the family worked at not acknowledging the argument between Meredith and her father moments before his death.
Kaz stared out the window into the darkness, possibly wondering how much time he had left on his bum ticker. Once I’d asked him what exactly was wrong, but he changed the subject so fast that I never asked again. Now would probably not be a good time either. I left for some fresh air and a chat with Tom Quick.
“Too bad about the old boy,” Tom said as we stood in the light of the portico. “Wasn’t a bad sort, from what I heard.”
“Apparently his only fault was not being a Pemberton,” I said. “What did folks around here think of him?”
“Hard to say. He was off in India for so long he didn’t have a chance to make his mark with the locals. You’re right about the Pembertons, though. The story was the old lady didn’t like Ashcroft leaving their hands. The Sutcliffes were not quite up to snuff in her eyes.”
“Any special reason? Scandal in Sir Rupert’s past?” I asked, trying to draw out any gossip Tom might have heard.
“Not that I know of. Dig deep enough, though, and you’ll find what any man hides away. His shame, his failings, his regrets. I’m sure Rupert Sutcliffe—with his fortune, land, and title—was not exempt from that,” Tom said. “Please give my best to David. We were going to meet for a drink tonight, but that can wait.”
“Maybe Kaz and I will make ourselves scarce and leave the family to themselves. If we can get away we’ll drop by the pub in North Cornworthy.” I didn’t mention Michael Withers, the man who’d known Ted Wiley in the old days.
Constable Carraher and Doctor Philips filed out, and Tom fell in behind them. They all crammed into an old Jowett Eight coupé and rattled off, satisfied with the stories they’d been told.
“My God,” David said from the open doorway, before allowing a sigh escape his lips. “It’s hard to believe he’s gone.”
“Distraught, of course,” he said. “She was much closer to her father than Meredith. Obviously.”
“And how is Meredith doing? It’s got to be hard on her.”
“She won’t let on. I doubt she’d ever admit to any guilt or blame. Edgar thought it best that we leave the three ladies alone so they can have some time to mourn by themselves. Smart chap,” David said, with a rueful grin.
“I have a question for you,” I said, shutting the door behind him and stepping off the portico so we wouldn’t be heard. “Did Kaz ever tell you what his heart problem was, exactly? He never wanted to go into specifics, and Sir Rupert’s death has me worried about him. I thought he looked upset in there, but maybe I’m reading too much into it.”
“Well, he did seem rather distracted,” David said. “Actually, he was diagnosed while we were at Oxford. He’d been short of breath, winded after climbing a single flight of stairs. He was never terribly athletic, but such weakness seemed to be the symptom of an underlying problem. I helped him find a specialist.”
“What did he say?”
“Most likely a congenital defect in a blood vessel near the heart. The doctor said it was inoperable, since it was so close to the heart itself,” David said.
“Was there a prognosis?”
“He prescribed rest. He said the academic life was well suited.”
“That’s hardly the life Kaz has now,” I said.
“I must say, I’ve never seen him looking better. He’s keeping himself quite fit.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Last year I think he decided life was worth living. A non-academic life, at that.”
“He told me about the explosion. About Daphne,” David said. “This war has robbed us of so much.”
“It makes a middle-aged man dying at home of a heart attack seem less of a tragedy,” I said.
“It will certainly make life at Ashcroft easier,” David said. “It’s not pleasant to say, but it’s true.”
“How so?” I asked.
“Well, with Sir Rupert gone, Meredith and Edgar can stay on. His troubles are over, at least as far as a job goes.”
“Assuming she inherits, along with Helen, I suppose,” I said.
“Who else?” David asked, and opened the door to go inside. It closed behind him with a solid, satisfying sound, thick wood and old iron sealing off the outside world and all its problems.
Who else indeed?
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE HUNTER’S LODGE was cheerier on the inside than the outside. An old stone fireplace took up most of one wall, a well-stocked bar the other, and in between tables were set on a wooden floor that had been polished by generations of leather soles. The banked fire gave off a warm glow, and the odor of tobacco mingled with the scent of workman’s sweat and frothy beer. There were about a dozen or so men in the place, most of them probably from the mill, by the looks of their callused hands and worn leather jerkins.
I carried two ales from the bar to the table Kaz had claimed by the fire. I’d filled him in earlier on the details of Sir Rupert’s request to determine if Peter Wiley was his son. We were here to look for Michael Withers, but in a small village pub it was best to bide your time and not shoot your mouth off first thing. Besides, the ale was fine and the fire warm. We were in no hurry to get back.
“You the visitors up at Ashcroft?” one of the men at the next table asked. “Is it true what we’re hearing, that the squire’s dead?”
“Sir Rupert, if that’s who you mean, yes,” I said. “He had a heart attack today and died.”
“Sad thing, that,” he said, and went back to his drink, not entirely grief-stricken.
“Did he ever come to the pub?” I asked, to keep the conversation going.
“Rupert Sutcliffe? Not likely,” he said. “Hardly stopped in the village at all. It was India, London, the big house for him. North Cornworthy? No.”
“Not like the Pembertons?”
“Ah, they’re all gone now, except for the old lady. Cruel swant, they were,” he said.
“Pardon me?” Kaz said. “They were cruel?”
“No, no,” he said. “Sorry, that’s how we say right proper ’round here. Very proper people, the Pembertons. The old viscount would come in here and buy a round of drinks and chat with the fellas, ask about the mill and the crops. Not like the cropeing lot up there now. Never seen one o’ them; they don’t mang with the common sort.”
“Cropeing?” Kaz said, ever the student of language. “Not proper?”
“G’wan, Evan, you’re laying it on a bit thick for these folk,” another man said. “He means stingy, and they don’t mix with the likes of us. Of course, Evan thinks anyone who doesn’t buy him a drink is cropeing, eh?” Evan didn’t disagree, a mischievous gleam in his eye telling me he’d enjoyed flummoxing the newcomers.
“I’m Michael Withers,” our translator said. “My daughter said you might come looking for me.”
“Please, sit down,” I said, before doing the introductions and heading back to the bar for three refills, not wanting to be thought of as cropeing. I returned to find Kaz deep in conversation with Withers, exploring the Devon dialect.
“Billy, this is quite interesting,” he said. “I never knew how much Old English was retained in the West Country dialects. They still use thee in everyday speech. Fascinating.”
“Ooh arr, we do,” Withers said. “But only wi’ each other. The rest of the land thinks we’re country rustics enough. So tell me now, what can I do for you?”
“Alice told me you knew Ted Wiley pretty well. Grew up with him,” I said. “His son, Peter, is stationed nearby and came to visit Ashcroft. I thought he might want to chat with someone who knew his father.” Peter had decided on an early night, and I’d told him I’d fill him in on anyone who knew his father. Ted Wiley, that is.
“Ted and I were chums, true enough. It’s been a long time since I thought of him. But you know how it is, you grow and go your separate ways. I didn’t have much to do with Ted after he went to work up at the house.”
“Alice said you talked about him often,” I said.
“Sure, stories about youthful adventures,” Withers said. “Raiding the orchard for apples, fishing and swimming in the river, that sort of thing. It was a simple time back then: chores, school, and playing outdoors. A good time to be a child. But then the war came, and we both signed up when we became of age in 1917.” He took a long drink and set down his glass nearly empty. “Ted and I were the lucky ones. We came home, and in one piece.”
“You were changed,” I said.
“ ’Course we were,” Withers said. “Ted and I met here now and then, but we’d become men, see? Light-hearted boys no more after more than a year in the trenches. I think it was hard for us to stay pals after the war. Maybe we reminded each other of how much we’d lost, even though we’d survived.”
It was time for another drink. I nodded to Kaz and he made the trip to the bar.
“Had Ted always been sweet on Julia Greenshaw?” I asked.
“Yes,” Withers said. “From the moment he laid eyes on her. Finally got up the nerve to ask for her hand when she said she was leaving for America. Everyone wondered why he hadn’t done it sooner.”
“Is she why he went to work at Ashcroft?”
“Well, I think he would have anyway,” Withers said. “Ted was the kind of man who wanted to better himself. Had no interest in village life. Now me, I think this is grand. Work close by, a good wife and three kids, and a warm pub to pass the time in. What else could a man want?”
“What did Ted want?” I asked as Kaz returned with our drinks.
“To make something of himself, he’d say.” Withers stopped to take a healthy swallow and smacked his lips as he set down the glass. “What that was, I never could pin down. Respect, I think it came down to. Ted was a smart one, even when we was kids. If he saw something he wanted, he grabbed it. Could usually talk his way out of trou
ble, too. Fitty, he was. Clever.”
“His son’s an artist,” I said. “Paints watercolors.”
“He must have got that from his mum,” Withers said. “Ted couldn’t draw, and his penmanship was worse. I could barely make out the one card he sent from America.”
“Maybe I’ll bring Peter by in a day or so,” I said. “I’m sure he’d want to meet you.”
“Do that,” Withers said. “I’ll tell him a few tall tales. Be a pleasure to meet the boy.”
“What about Roger Crawford?” I asked. “Did he know Ted?”
“No,” Withers said. “Crawford came here from the South Hams after Ted left. Poor bugger.”
“I heard stories about him bringing things in from France,” I said.
“Stories, eh? I thought you came here to help Ted’s boy, not to ask questions about hardworking fishermen.” His eyes narrowed, and I saw Evan turn in his chair, watching us.
“Sorry, no harm meant,” I said. “It was only something I heard today.”
“Gossip is for old ladies,” Withers said. “Now I’ll bid you goodnight.” He rose and went to sit at Evan’s table, where they were soon huddled together, heads close and voices low.
“One question too many, Billy,” Kaz said, raising his glass in salute. “Here is to knowing when to stop.”
“Better than one too few, Kaz.” We finished our drinks and gave up on waiting for Tom Quick. He was probably busy helping the local constable with paperwork and arrangements for the body. We walked past Withers, and I nodded as our eyes met. He looked away, but Evan’s whisper was loud enough for me to make out his words without understanding them.
“I tell thee, appen the janner will find the shord as well,” Evan said, and laughed coarsely as Withers hushed him.
“I have no idea what he meant,” Kaz said as we got into the jeep. “We’ll need to find a translator. Perhaps David will know. He’d be interested in local dialects.”
“Sure,” I said. Appen the janner will find the shord. “Or maybe we had one too many.”
IT WAS LATE enough that we went around to the back door at Ashcroft, unsure who might still be up and which doors were locked. The blackout curtains were all drawn, and not a sliver of light escaped the house. The kitchen door opened, and we found Mrs. Dudley and Williams seated at the table, both in their dressing gowns, a bottle of wine and three glasses between them.
